 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
GOING HOME.
I went home with Ludmilla,
As I very often do;
We sat on the grass together—
But what is that to you?
As I very often do;
We sat on the grass together—
But what is that to you?
374
Beneath the trees we chatted,
But not a word of love;
As innocent as children,
Or the birds that sang above.
But not a word of love;
As innocent as children,
Or the birds that sang above.
I squeezed her little fingers,
That pressed, methought, my own.
“Ludmilla, O Ludmilla,
If you were only grown!”
That pressed, methought, my own.
“Ludmilla, O Ludmilla,
If you were only grown!”
At the cheeks of poor Ludmilla,
Who turned away her head,
You might have lighted a candle,
They blushed so red, so red!
Who turned away her head,
You might have lighted a candle,
They blushed so red, so red!
“What is it, dear Ludmilla,
What maiden hopes or fears?”
Her answer to my question
Was a sudden stream of tears.
What maiden hopes or fears?”
Her answer to my question
Was a sudden stream of tears.
“Weep not, weep not, Ludmilla,
Or let your tears be few:
My heart is constant ever,
And only beats for you.”
Or let your tears be few:
My heart is constant ever,
And only beats for you.”
The moon stole out of the darkness,
As bright as bright could be;
She smiled when I kissed my darling,
And wished that she were she.
As bright as bright could be;
She smiled when I kissed my darling,
And wished that she were she.
We'll meet again to-morrow,
And each the promise made:
Then something rustled near us,
But we were not afraid.
And each the promise made:
Then something rustled near us,
But we were not afraid.
375
I went home with Ludmilla,
Not as I used to do,
For I covered her with kisses—
But what is that to you?
Not as I used to do,
For I covered her with kisses—
But what is that to you?
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |